


waves crashing on distant shores of time

by ikijai



Category: Black Mirror
Genre: 2000s, 80s, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, F/F, San Junipero, wonderful women to whom i offer the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:19:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikijai/pseuds/ikijai
Summary: There are no zeros telling them their time is up. // kelly and yorkie, together in paradise.





	waves crashing on distant shores of time

“ _Happiness, not in another place, but this place_.”

— Walt Whitman                                                                                                                                          

* * *

 

Yorkie used to prefer the distant hues of the pastel sky during the time in which the sun went down. Kelly always prefered the wild storms the ocean brought with the tides—those warm, disastrous waves. These days, it’s opposite. They’ve traded places, turned into different pieces of the whole, interchangeable, weaved together or apart.

They take turns driving that old car, knuckles interlaced at the wheel, the top down. There are a thousand different versions of themselves in a thousand different places within this utopia. They don’t party quite the way they did in past lives, though they find peace in dancing and excitement in tiredness. The ticking of clocks doesn’t petrify them the way it used to. _They’ve got all the time in the world._

“ _I’m not much of a dancer_ ,” Yorkie’d said once. “ _You don’t know who I am_.”

While true then, it’s the furthest thing from truth now. Kelly’d understood, though neither of them wanted to quit pushing for the thing they knew would be tangible if they just tried to make it work. Even Yorkie, deep down, didn’t want to walk away. But she’d been worried about what people would think of _two women dancing together in the 80s._

“ _This is a party town_ ,” Kelly’d told her. “ _No one’s judging_.”

But Kelly was the dancer between the two—the outgoing, party type. Yorkie was the insecure introvert who didn’t know what she was doing or why she was there in that instant.

And after all this time, they’re still a personified oxymoron. But none of that seems principal over the way they are the furthest thing from paradoxical when their tongues touch and their pulses invigorate.

Pulling up at Tucker’s is like reaching their true destination. It’s where they met, where they danced, where they knew for the first time they were destined to be something important together.

They kiss under neon lights to the tune of disco inferno and tainted love. But there is nothing tainted about the way they work, the way they jive and turn before their lips widen painfully and islands twinkle under eyelids. This pixilated existence has offered them what the outside world wouldn’t dream of: peace, and ironically, an idea that’s present and tangible in a way that’s undeniable.

“What do you think we’d be like outside this place?” Yorkie whispers, drink in hand, just barely untense.

They’re pressed up against the far wall at Tucker’s, watching people jump to upbeat tunes and experiencing the whole thing that is this place they’ve discovered together. They're untamed, untranslatable.

Kelly doesn’t twitch, doesn’t even take pause at the inquiry she’s used to. It’s the inevitability of it that strikes her, Yorkie thinks. “You won’t ever have to know.”

“I just feel like I’ll wake up from this—this _dream_ , you know?” Yorkie’s watery eyes are downcast. Warm, icy pools not wanting to peer up into wide, umber ones.

“We’re not dreaming, and you won’t wake up from this,” Kelly pledges, pulling nearer and nearer until they’re a tightly knit unity under one thick jacket.

“Promise?”

“What’s with you, Yorkie? Kelly utters, tone entirely made up of worry and perplexity. This is a unique development between them. “It’s all okay.”

“I know,” Yorkie whispers under the deafening music playing from every direction. “It’s just the first time that that’s true.”

 

  
* *

 

The year 2000 is as wild as it ever was. It's all tight tops and impulsive decisions. It ignites a spark in Kelly and an undying excitement in Yorkie. Kelly drives while Yorkie thanks everything inside her that she’d previously decided to turn her pain slider all the way down to zero. Kelly is reckless, dangerously twisting and turning over the pavement as the wind blows through their tresses. Yorkie wouldn't change a thing about it, but she still holds on tightly.

Defying time and space is something they've grown used to, but never tired of.

“This is one of my favorite years,” Kelly iterates over the roar of wind, pupils wide and distracted, packed with so much _life_ that it'd be impossible to persuade anybody that they're dead in the real world.

“I don't know,” Yorkie disputes idly. “I like the unpredictability of the future, too.”

“It _was_ a good upgrade, but think about it this way,” Kelly yells over the sound of the ignition increasing and increasing. “The past is much more exciting. The weather is definitely nicer.”

Thousands of birds penetrate the sky up above, white and pastel and never dying when they're together. It's all electrifying blues and tangerines, dangerous periwinkles. The ocean tries desperately to pore itself over the shore, but it won't take.

“ _Wes_ likes to pop up this time around,” Yorkie utters.

There's a pause before Kelly’s tone drops innumerable octaves. “You're not _jealous_?” she teases, peaking at Yorkie peripherally. The tires whine underneath them.

There's a smile twitching at Yorkie’s upper lip threatening to give the whole thing up. The two of them have grown theatrical in paradise, always joking, always knowing the truth underneath the words.

“There's no one I'd rather be dead with, darling. You know that. Wes didn't, unfortunately.”

“Poor Wes,” Yorkie says, tone deadpan, smile obvious.

“ _Yorkie_ , my wonderful, tall, _insanely_ beautiful wife. There's only you.”

“Yeah,” Yorkie’s smile widens until teeth reveal themselves. “I know.”

 

  
* *

 

  
They disagree on where to drive occasionally, but they always end up under the same cool sheets near the same identical ocean when it's over.

The days are the brightest colors and the most personified happiness. The nights pulsating teeth and excitement. The excitement never dies, not with Kelly’s willingness to try anything and Yorkie’s overt impulse to follow her wife into depths. They wake up to the sound of waves protruding from the ocean and drift off to the dying light outside.

Time used to be the one thing they could never keep a hold of before it tore itself away from them. Now it's each other they have difficulty tearing away from. Endless nights spent twined with and on top of each other. Peaceful mornings under an insanely blue sky and soaring white birds up above. The clock ticks on past midnight—they ignore it when it does. But some things will always be inevitable, some talks will always be had.

“I was paralyzed,” Yorkie whispers into the pitch dark. “It _still_ didn't change the way they thought of me—for years.”

“Your parents were jerks,” Kelly whispers back, twining their fingers together under white pillows. And past becomes present, because no matter what anyone thinks, they will always be people, not just dials in the TCKR. Not just techno-existences upon a wall of thousands. “They don't know you. They don't know a damn thing about you.”

The watch Yorkie wears is just pretend, an old thing she was never truly able to let go of. Kelly tells her it's useless, but she keeps it. She doesn't want to forget a time when they watched it tick too intently, just waiting for it to be up—doesn't want to forget how much different things turned out to be. This is why, Yorkie thinks, dying out there was worth it.

 

  
* *

 

They watch the ball drop from the t.v. protruding out of the too-low ceiling. It's a new place, somewhere they've been wanting to try for weeks. The year is 1988, and the past just keeps improving itself.

There's a jukebox near the door, and Kelly is all over it before Yorkie so much as notices its presence.

“Dirty dancing?” Kelly yells out. “ _Time after time?_ ”

“Whatever you want,” Yorkie yells back.

The dancefloor is packed as they twirl together, wrapped up and in their own universe trapped between twisting, turning bodies under dim lighting. It isn't the least bit unpleasant.

Kelly watches Yorkie watch her back, wide frames circling warm-icy blues and too-present dimples that form slowly, then all at once.

Yorkie knows passing through was the best decision she’d ever made, she just wishes she'd done it sooner. They were dying in the real world, but this place is the furthest thing from any plausible death.

“This is kind of incredible,” she whispers into Kelly’s temple, like it's just struck her all over again how far from underwhelming this whole thing is. “I didn't see it this way back then.”

“It's all about perspective,” Kelly whispers before she's kissing her wife in a way that turns the word _passionate_ to a pathetic understatement.

There was a time when Yorkie would be insecure about people watching them, but she finds it difficult to give a damn now. Yorkie thinks this is the whole universe, and to the two of them, it is.

 

  
* *

 

  
It's a warm day on their beach property—a Thursday, Yorkie decides. Kelly’s just barely awake near the water, and Yorkie’s never witnessed a sight prettier than her wife drifting in and out with a towel precariously thrown beneath her wet form.

“You remember the wedding?” Yorkie ponders, pale under the sun and tall against the waves.

“You remember when I _deflowered_ you?” Kelly teases, toes dipped into the ocean and head thrown back to peer up at Yorkie.

Yorkie shoots her best impersonation of a death glare down her way, but Kelly only laughs deep in her throat. “Your words, not mine.”

“You were a lot to take in,” Yorkie defends. “I wasn't prepared.”

“You were positively _terrified_ ,” Kelly precises. “And I was terrified to touch you because of it.”

Yorkie joins her at the edge of the ocean, toes kicked into warm water. “You're not scared to touch me now, though,” she whispers.

“Well, you've got your pain slider set to zero, don't you?” Kelly teases.

Yorkie thinks of a darker time, when those words weren't just a joke and she wasn't so willing to pretend they were. “I didn't jump.”

A plane whooshes overhead, toward an unknown place they've probably never been. Their tourist days have dwindled.

Kelly kisses Yorkie under the sun, plump lips tepid and thoughtful, doe eyes twinkling with an undefinable emotion. “ _You didn't jump_.”

 

  
* *

 

  
The wind is powerful tonight, forcing open windows and blowing things all over the place. It doesn't stop Kelly on top of Yorkie, wrists pinned up against the wall and pulling down over and over until Yorkie’s sure she's never felt this much pleasure in all her years.

Kelly’s pushing away too soon, but Yorkie knows better than to think she's tired. There’s perspiration dripping down both their backs when Yorkie decides to be daring, open. “Want to go again?”

“Do you think we've got time?” Kelly whispers, and the smile is there in her tone though it's all dark inside and out. Yorkie can practically see her pupils widen impossibly from where they inspect her own. The clock they don't often check imperceptibly reads _12:08 AM._

“That joke never gets old,” Yorkie derides.

“I've got better jokes.”

“I know you do,” Yorkie says, kissing her wife over and over until they're back in their usual position. They prefer wine to whiskey in the privacy of their own home, and this time, Yorkie’s prepared.

 

  
* *

 

  
It's Yorkie’s turn behind the wheel, and they find themselves in town at 2:00 AM, a time they once thought they wouldn't get the opportunity to witness together. “Where to next?”

“Why don't we check out the new theater?” Kelly ponders.

Yorkie’d told Kelly how much she used to like watching t.v., one of the only things she could still do in terminal paralysis. Kelly prefers to watch her instead, but she indulges Yorkie’s television obsession from time to time.

The enormous poster they park under reads _Time Traveling Wives_ , an indication of what's happening in the outside world.

“Well that's innovative,” Kelly utters. “But _jesus_ , it sounds terrible.”

Yorkie plays along, prepares to walk through the theater doors. “I’d probably pay to see it, though.”

Kelly’s answering smile is brilliant, and before they know it, they've bought two tickets and an overwhelming amount of popcorn. The movie is terrible and insultingly predictable, but there are no zeros telling them their time is up.

 

  
* *

 

There are typical disagreements, but nothing like the one during their wedding night when they threw out words they didn't mean before parting ways. The important part came when they un-parted the next week. What wasn't important were those people who didn't understand them. Those things that tried to get in the way from time to time. But some talks are just inevitable.

“I'm thinking about trying pole dancing.”

“I'm not kidding, Kelly.”

“I'm not either,” she defends. Yorkie knows it's Kelly’s way of protecting her, but this can't wait. They've put it off too long.

“What if we do— _die_. What if this whole thing is temporary,  _psychosis,_ and those people who didn't want to try it were right the whole time?”

“They _weren't_.” Kelly’s tone pitches dangerously. “They’re just a bunch of uptight ignoramuses who don't know what they're talking about.”

“They don't think we're people,” Yorkie disputes. “Part timers told me last week. The trials, the _justice system_ out there—.”

“ _Is terrible_ ,” Kelly interrupts. “As politics always will be. But none of that is with us, okay?”

“They're persistent.”

“Yeah,” Kelly says. “ _We are too_.”

Yorkie’s poker face turns upset.

“You,” Kelly presses into Yorkie, fingers tracing invisible patterns against pale skin under moonlight. “Are a _person_. Out of towner’s don't know what the fuck they're talking about. Fuck them—and their terrible lack of optimism. They're just a bunch of trepidacious, _presumptuous_ pricks who think they're better because they're not _uploaded_ to the TCKR. They don't know us—they don't know that you're more _people_ than anyone I've ever known.”

They pass out together, the outside world left to be just that. Yorkie doesn't worry after this.

 

  
* *

 

  
There are tired days, days in which they opt to stay in instead of going out. Instead of drinking and partying and being with other people. These are days where they discover unknown things about the other, old truths from the outside.

Yorkie paints a portrait of the ocean on the porch while Kelly watches.

“I didn't know you painted,” Kelly whispers, placing a kiss to Yorkie’s temple and wrapping her upper body tightly around her.

“When I was younger,” Yorkie utters idly. It's too obvious that she’s in a far away place, only with Kelly physically. “Before—you know.”

“What would you have painted out there? Today?” Kelly wonders aloud.

“I don't know,” Yorkie says thoughtfully. She thinks of the outlet she used to escape the impending dread of her parents. “I just drew or painted whatever I felt at the time.” _Cool, primary colors. Sadness_. But it's warm colors she uses today.

Kelly watches her paint the turning tides, watches her take time and detail to perfect the image until it's practically a photograph.

“I took pictures,” Kelly inputs. “Wrote poems for my daughter. They were what I did.”

Though the pain of distant memories twinges at the back of their throats, the joy they feel together still wins—the tears don't prevail.

“This painting is for you,” Yorkie whispers, turning just enough to see her wife’s profile transforming.

Kelly’s insides ignite warmer than the temperature pouring out of the sun.

 

  
* *

 

Tucker’s is undecidedly their favorite place, and the 80s will always be their destination.

“Jack and coke. Times two,” Kelly orders. It's like déjà vu, a parallel to older times.

“ _Kelly_.”

“ _Yorkie_.”

“I'm trying not to drink too much,” Yorkie deadpans.

“I'm just following protocol,” Kelly defends. But Yorkie isn’t joking, so she lets out a deep, drastic sigh. “Okay, pick your poison.”

“I'll take a pepsi,” she orders. “No ice.”

“This won't be fun if I'm the only one who’s drunk,” Kelly practically whines.

Yorkie peers at wasted bodies thriving all over the place. “Trust me, you won't be.”

Kelly wears jewels and pearls tonight, impressing more than just Yorkie with her improved, perfected technique. Waitresses and bartenders watch the one-woman show along with Yorkie, who tries her best not to let unnecessary jealousy jeopardize their dynamic. They usually dance together, but Yorkie’s tired tonight, and everyone who watches her partner is just as impressed as she was that first time they whirled together.

“You okay?” Kelly’s there after a while, intakes deep, words obviously tinted as she takes the open space opposite Yorkie, who's eyes are wide, pupils dilated.

“Yeah,” Yorkie pretends. “Just feel kind of weird.”

“You positive you can take it?”

“I'm not new in town anymore,” Yorkie utters.  
  
“There was a time when you were,” Kelly whispers, tone telling the truth even in its drunken state. “I worried about you. I still do.”

“What was your opinion of me?” Yorkie asks.

Kelly’s expression twists slightly. “What?”

“What did you think of me back then?” Yorkie pushes. Her tone is giving way to past insecurity.

Kelly ponders, then utters, “I know I intimidated you.”

“Do you think these people have all passed through?” Yorkie switches the topic. “It was 85 percent before, do you think it's closer to them all now?”

“I don't know,” Kelly says. Worry tints her inspection.

“That waitress likes you,” Yorkie observes.

Kelly plays along. “What's your theory?”

“Trying to win you back,” Yorkie teases, but the wavering is there when she talks.

“As it turns out, waitresses aren't my type,” Kelly says. “I prefer tall, dangerously beautiful, kind of introverted, kind of dorky—,”

“ _Okay_ , but don't you like waitresses too?”

“Tempting,” Kelly laughs, and she only doubles over at Yorkie’s terrified expression. “ _I’m kidding_.”

They don't thrive week to week, but day to day, in indivisible moments. Immortality is something they could get used to, as improbable as it is. It’s what they want. They disagree occasionally—or spend the day apart, but there are no zeros telling them their time is up.

**Author's Note:**

> pretty much just because the world is in dire need of time/space defying wlw & because kelly & yorkie are incredibly important to me. thanks.


End file.
